


blinded by the lights (drowing in the night)

by nairwal



Series: Commissions [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Crying, Emotional Baggage, Family Issues, Heaven & Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Language, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Religious Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairwal/pseuds/nairwal
Summary: The weeks have been quiet. A time for readjustment. Trust Heaven to rear its ugly head and disrupt it all.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Commissions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744447
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	blinded by the lights (drowing in the night)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for Tumblr user @fanlan1, who gave me permission to publish! 
> 
> Title inspired by The Weeknd's ‘Blinding Lights’.
> 
> If you're interested in commissioning me for any written work, please check out these links: [Tumblr](https://goomens.tumblr.com) | [Commission Info/Prices](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617027819411849216/my-ko-fi-is-up-and-running-and-commissions-are-now) | [Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/nairwal)
> 
> Edit: Format may be subject to change! See a rather long paragraph while you’re reading? Yeah—it’ll be fixed soon enough. :)

Aziraphale’s bookshop looks much the same as it had before the fire had turned it to ash. Thanks to Adam, the dear boy, it had been restored with nothing more than a single thought. Yet—it’s like walking into a parallel universe, Aziraphale thinks, rather forlornly; the shop looks the same, mostly, with the same beige, classic interior, but it _feels_ different. The air holds a different weight to it, the walls seem a little narrower and the space smaller.

The books, and there are still so many of them, line the thick wooden shelves in uneven rows and with their aged spine panels facing outward. Others lay stacked on the various display tables, haphazardly slotted in the spaces between the various ornaments and vintage lamps, whose patterned shades cast dull shapes across the room. It’s all very nice, but rather than a home, the bookshop feels as though it is but an ode to what his home had once been.

Even still, Aziraphale doesn’t take kindly to those who _intrude_ on his property, however changed it may be. Especially if said intruders wear matching expressions of apathy. And even more so if they are Gabriel and Uriel.

Aziraphale is not concerned about their sudden appearance—surprised, perhaps, that it’d taken them so long to make their move—but he is no longer the Angel he once was nor the Angel he ever aimed to be. For better, as they say, or for worse.

“Good evening,” Aziraphale greets them mildly where they stand, barely glancing up from his careful arranging of his Harry Castlemon collection. He has taken to this organising business as of late. It keeps him occupied, makes him feel accomplished. He can see why many humans like to indulge in such things. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Or—to whom, I suppose is the better question?”

Dressed in an impassive mask, Gabriel folds his hands together in front of himself. His suit is grey and pristine, like his neat hair, like his clipped voice. “Heaven. The Angels. _Us_.” He waits a beat, as if emphasising his point. Aziraphale dusts off one of his books before sliding it in-between two others, making a satisfied hum when it fits the narrow gap perfectly. “Aziraphale. You must return at once. There must be suitable punishment for your actions and your questionable… relations… with the enemy.”

“The enemy, you say…” Aziraphale ponders aloud, finally turning to face the two Archangels, his posture sure but rigid. What kind of punishment could they possibly be considering? They’d already attempted Hellfire, there is little else as severe. “Well. Thank you for the offer, but I refuse,” He declares, sounding far more confident than he feels.

Uriel sighs softly. Like she expected him to turn it down. The soft yellow light of the bookshop glittering over the golden embellishments that frame her face, she tells him, “It isn’t a matter of request. You are expected. It is your duty to fulfil.”

His _duty_? Aziraphale’s fingers find and then tighten around a book—he isn’t sure which one without looking at its cover, unwilling to divert his attention from the two Angels standing only a foot away from him—and he feels the strange need to _laugh_. The feeling is so strong that he very nearly does, his lips slipping upward into a near grin, but he manages to regain his composure. At least some of his Angelic physiognomies remain intact.

“My duty… is not to Heaven.” Aziraphale experiences a mixed feeling of both dread and liberation upon uttering the words. The Archangels look surprised, but only a little, ever the composed professionals. “But you are aware of this already, yes? I didn’t believe I’d have to say it so outright, but alas—”

“Need I remind you, Aziraphale,” Uriel interrupts bitterly, “That we have the ability to punish you beyond the simple execution which, I am aware, you have previously avoided. Somehow.” She pauses to mull it over. “There are many other methods we could exert. Perhaps worth than death. That, your _friend_ is surely familiar.”

“Duly noted,” Aziraphale snaps, anger suddenly rolling off of him in harsh, tangible waves. Such behaviour may have been considered uncharacteristic of him, once, but Aziraphale has long since abandoned all sentiment regarding his so-called allegiances, as too with his own expected nature. He has simply been so consistently mistaken over the years that it bears no thought, these days. And he has that capability—free from the vice grip of Heaven. From its rules and expectations and holiness. That is, at least until now.

Aziraphale chooses to ignore the blatant dig at Crowley. For them to speak so freely about his Fall… “Thank you for your time, but I must ask that you leave immediately. I regret to inform you that I am, in fact, exceptionally busy.” Aziraphale cools his rage with a deep breath, waving a hand toward the bookshop entrance with a false smile. “Goodbye, then.”

Gabriel moves, then, quick like he is fuelled by the very human hormone adrenaline, but perhaps it is just anger, and one moment he is in Aziraphale’s personal space, then Aziraphale is being pushed up roughly against a full-height bookshelf, the various volumes digging into his back. The book caught in his hand falls with a thud to the floor at their feet. Aziraphale could say he isn’t frightened—he has certainly faced worse; Satan himself had showed face and even then Aziraphale hadn’t felt the fear crawl up his throat like this, making his skin flush hot then cold—but it would be a complete lie to do so. He is afraid. Gabriel is growling out words through gritted teeth, only centimetres from Aziraphale’s face.

Gabriel’s large hands are tight around Aziraphale’s collar, horribly cold. Inhuman. “You are not in control. For too long you have—disobeyed! You have gone against your orders, the Plan, everything expected of you.” Aziraphale tries to pull free, angling his head to the side, but it only results in him being pressed against the bookshelf with much more force, the breath knocked out of him as Gabriel continues his speech. “No longer will you breach the word and demands of Heaven. You shall return lest…” He glances around, eyes sliding from shelf to table. He turns back to Aziraphale, gaze sliding to the floor. Then his eyes settle. Aziraphale’s stomach drops.

“This’ll do,” Gabriel mutters, releasing his grip on Aziraphale and crouching. He picks up the dropped book, carelessly, by the front cover and the front cover alone, and the yellowed pages flutter open, separating indignantly. The book is Rudyard Kipling’s ‘‘ _Seven Seas_ ’, the original 1896 edition—the swirling brown design on the front cover blurred by Gabriel’s movements. He glares at Aziraphale. “If you do not co-operate, Aziraphale,” He continues sharply, holding the poor book out like a make-shift weapon, “Then I shall be forced to take measures of other sorts until you comply.”

The split-second before Gabriel lifts his free hand, Aziraphale realises what is happening. And he isn’t fast enough to stop it, though he tries—darting forward with his own hand outstretched in frantic protest. Then, all at once, the book is levitated into the air between the three of them, pages dangling uselessly, and then it is exploding into thousands of tiny pieces; the remnants of the printed words falling like confetti to the floor. Aziraphale feels nauseas.

Gabriel says, “This will be the first of many if you dare decline our summons again.”

“Be cautious about your future decisions, Aziraphale,” Uriel adds, “For you to Fall after all this time would be quite the ordeal. Wouldn’t you agree?”

And they disappear without a sound. All pieces of the book haven’t even finished their journey to the floor yet. Aziraphale watches as they flutter down and down… He swallows down the misery that he feels lodged deep in his throat. It seems silly, really, that the loss of the book hurts. Aziraphale has certainly been through far worse. The loss of the book is, in comparison to the events of the previous years, inconsequential. The simple fact is that the book was his, was Aziraphale’s, and it has been brought to dust by the intrusive and unwelcome hand of Gabriel. And Aziraphale had only been able to watch as he did so. Taking a few steps to his armchair, he lowers himself down until he reaches the soft cushion.

The tears fall without so much as a warning, hot where they meet the skin of Aziraphale’s cheeks. And it’s—oh, it’s embarrassing, even though he is alone, to be so torn up over the book. He could miracle another copy and place it back in its rightful spot on the table, but it wouldn’t be the same. It wouldn’t feel the same. Like the bookshop, he supposes solemnly.

Aziraphale wipes at his face with his hands. They come away damp, but the tears don’t cease no matter how many times he repeats the movement. Instead, the silent tears turn into subdued cries, which morph, rather quickly, into outright sobs. They echo around the empty shop. Sadness flows like blood through his body, his veins, and it pangs in his chest. With his face buried into his hands and his body hunched over where he sits, his thoughts drift to the abandonment that he cannot help but feel from Heaven. Had this been what Crowley had experienced when he Fell: strange familial rejection and such a harsh loss? To be one of ten million other disobeying Angels, sentenced to a lifetime of Hell for daring to step one foot out of line; Aziraphale can’t bear to think about it—about Angels losing their Heavenly wings and gaining the Hellish equivalent. And Aziraphale hasn’t even Fallen. He had only been cast aside and threatened with such… The pain of doing so must be excruciating.

It is like a sudden, blinding rush the sheer _longing_ he feels for Crowley. It wracks through Aziraphale’s very being, burns, bone deep and achingly familiar. His hands shake with it and his fingers tremble, even as he continues to weep openly. It’s almost too much to handle, these feelings which mount on top of his already sad state. He cries for himself, his palms wet where they cup his face. He cries for Crowley, for his Fall. For both of them.

It is a testament to Aziraphale’s incredible streak of misfortune when Crowley materialises into existence only a foot or so away with a quiet ‘crack’ and sizzle. But Aziraphale cannot look up, can’t stop his tears or the broken cries of anguish he makes, can only experience the flood of shame that blankets him and, selfishly, the comfort at Crowley’s unexpected company.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, his voice so, so small, and Aziraphale whimpers, a horrible wet sound, before Crowley’s hands are on Aziraphale’s wrists, pulling them away from his face with care. Aziraphale lets him, snivelling, and averts his gaze from Crowley’s own where they are shaded by his glasses. Aziraphale must look awful—with red-rimmed eyes and tracks all down his face. But Crowley dips his head so that their eyes meet, and the pain in seeing his own sadness reflected in Crowley’s face…

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale blubbers, voice wavering despite the deep breaths he takes to ground himself. He reaches out, pats Crowley’s shoulder; in easy reach as the Demon has taken to crouching before Aziraphale on the floor, “It’s nothing. It’s quite—quite alright.”

Incredulous, naturally, “ _Alright_? Hell, Angel, I’ve never seen…” Crowley trails off, leaving the rest of his thought unspoken. You like this, Aziraphale inserts wordlessly in the silence that follows. Crowley is right. And Aziraphale cannot help but be completely truthful with him. It all comes out in a rush.

“Oh, I know. I know, dear. I just—I had a little altercation, is all. Gabriel and Uriel… They were here in the bookshop, you see. Only minutes ago. Demanded I return to Heaven to discuss punishment. For me, of course. I refused and—oh, Crowley! They destroyed one of my books; Gabriel promised he’d return for the rest if I turned them down again.”

Taking a shuddering breath that rattles in his lungs, Aziraphale whispers, “Uriel threatened to… to see me _Fall_ , Crowley.”

Something in Crowley’s expression flickers at Aziraphale’s confession. His concern turns into something nasty, horribly intense. His eyes burn with a searing hatred, hands reaching out before freezing in an aborted movement. His fingers flex, grappling indecisively with the air before they settle on Aziraphale’s chest. Heated and starkly juxtaposed to the tender movements of his hands where they smooth over the material of Aziraphale’s coat lapels, he snarls.

“How dare they. Bastards, both of them. The lot of them! They had no right to jussst… Turn up and harassss you! How _dare_ —”

“Oh, no, Crowley, my darling,” Aziraphale interrupts with urgency. His voice is weak, but he simply cannot stand by silently as Crowley succumbs to his anger, his s’s drawn out; Crowley’s emotions often run away from him and, just as often, it is made obvious by his words. While Aziraphale can empathise entirely with these feelings, fully aware of Heaven’s utter gall, the actions of Gabriel, it doesn’t mean he wants to. He doesn’t _want_ to be angry. He doesn’t want Crowley to be, either, or make any silly decisions. “Please.”

Crowley pauses, mouth snapping shut with a clack of his teeth. His fingers are still slowly, nimbly, caressing the material of Aziraphale’s coat, hands running up and down in easy strokes. It is rather comforting. Aziraphale can just about feel the heat of Crowley’s hands through his cotton shirt.

“Sorry. ‘m sorry, Angel,” He apologises, now, eyebrows drawn up like he has injured Aziraphale with his outburst, which has faded and left behind a withering sort of grief in its wake. With one hand, he thumbs away the tears on Aziraphale’s cheeks. The pad of his thumb is warm and soft, unblemished. “I lost myself. Just for a second. I’m—I’m here now.” His hands find the nape of Aziraphale’s neck, gently tugging at the soft hair there, before he shifts, brackets Aziraphale’s head, his little fingers curved at the base of his skull and thumbs gently resting at the knoll of Aziraphale’s cheekbones.

“Look. It’ll be fine. You’re okay, you’re safe. I—I could miracle you the book back. I can do that, easy peasy,” Crowley rambles, fingers still gentle where he cradles Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale watches him through heavy eyes, love for the man kneeling before him, for the man holding him together, pouring out of him in droves. He thinks: what is new? “Or not. Whatever. I can do whatever you need. Anything, everything. I’ll stay here with you, in the bookshop. I’d like to see Gabriel try it with _me_.”

That encourages the barest hint of a smile from Aziraphale, and it really is but a hint, yet Crowley beams. But it doesn’t last. Aziraphale can see that his coloured eyes are wet behind his sunglasses, which Aziraphale removes without a word. There need be no barriers between them. He sets them down somewhere to his right, perhaps on the table or perhaps he has just left them floating there—he isn’t entirely sure, because Crowley is watching him with such focus that it steals the very breath from his lungs. Crowley’s face is an open book, more so now than ever. He is still concerned, still afraid, still aching, and mirroring the same sorrow that Aziraphale is certain is evident on his own features.

“I have known for some time now that I am… not welcome in Heaven. Not what they want—what they need. I have always been different from them, Crowley. Always.”

“I can… I mean, we’re both,” Crowley continues, quieter now, voice kind and reassuring and quivering like he is utterly terrified to voice what he is thinking, “I know how you feel. With Heaven—being banished. Kicked out. Cast aside like some spare part.” He spits the words out like they ache to voice, and they probably do. Aziraphale simply cannot imagine his Fall from grace. “It’s terrible. Painful, too. My wings… But. But we’re here. We don’t need them. Heaven, Hell. They just assign labels, titles, they’ve never been our—” He can’t quite find the words, biting hard on his lower lip, however, he goes on, spurred on by some unseen force—courage, perhaps. Bravery. “It’s just us, Angel. _Us_ ,” He repeats, a mirror of Gabriel's earlier words, “From the beginning until the end.”

“Oh. Crowley, I…” Aziraphale breathes, entirely at a loss for words and completely, utterly, in love.

He drags Crowley into a crushing embrace that somehow ends up far more successful than one would think, given the odd angle that Crowley’s arms end up in. With a little shifting, though, Aziraphale manages to curl his arms around Crowley’s chest, where his ribs lay, his heart beating solidly beneath them, so pure and so human, Aziraphale’s back curved down to reach the kneeling man; Crowley himself holding onto Aziraphale’s neck like he never wants to move again.

“It’ll be okay, sweetheart,” Crowley whispers into Aziraphale’s neck—and isn’t that just something? “We’ll be okay.”

It’s only when Crowley pulls back from their embrace and presses a feather-light kiss to the textured expanse of Aziraphale’s forehead, his pointed nose, the corner of his open mouth, and whispers a gentle promise to keep him safe from this point on, _I promise, Angel_ , that Aziraphale finds himself believing that, perhaps, over time and with the help of Crowley, it is entirely possible that he can heal from the loss of his antique Kipling book. He knows, too, that that’s not what this is—that the book was not, in fact, what had made him cry, made him feel so horribly small and weak, or what Crowley was comforting him for. It had been the rejection from Heaven, the outright expulsion from what was once his family. Not by blood, but by creation itself. The almost-but-not-quite Fall, the simple threat of such a thing.

Aziraphale does not, of course, voice this. But Crowley knows all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Tumblr user @fanlan1 again for this commission! I am super, super grateful. I decided to set this post the almost-apocalypse as it’s one of my personal favourite timeframes for our boys. I simply had to include a lot of angst on top of the hurt/comfort, as well as some heavy familial/religious issues… I sincerely hope you enjoyed this and find that it ticks all of the boxes you had in your head. <3
> 
> [Commissions Info](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617027819411849216/my-ko-fi-is-up-and-running-and-commissions-are-now) | [Fandom List](https://goomens.tumblr.com/post/617027819411849216/my-ko-fi-is-up-and-running-and-commissions-are-now) | [Support me on Ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/nairwal)


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